


To act on want.

by Kataclysmic



Category: Lost
Genre: Episode: s02e20 Two for the Road, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29271540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kataclysmic/pseuds/Kataclysmic
Summary: He knows the tricks, how to seduce someone and win them over.  Jack uses none of Sawyer's well honed techniques, but still Sawyer finds himself caught in lust and – something else.
Relationships: James "Sawyer" Ford/Jack Shephard
Kudos: 8





	To act on want.

\--

“How'd she get your gun, Sawyer?” Jack's voice barks out in the hollow quiet of the jungle, his heavy footfalls hurrying him away from the hatch and the bodies, and closer to where Sawyer stands amidst a dense copse of trees.

“What - so this is my fault now?” he asks, waving an arm out in the direction of the hatch. He'd left when he'd realised there was little he - or in fact, anyone - could do. Jack should have stayed, tended to Mike's shoulder, but here he was, following him into the jungle for no reason but to blame him for things that were too late to be fixed. He didn't want to hear the intrepid plans to cross the island and rescue the missing and wreak revenge. “Dead girls in **your** hatch an' it's all my fault.” 

“Don't avoid the question.”

“It's none of your damn business.”

“Ana hasn't -“ Jack pauses and swallows back tears. “Ana didn't have a stash, anything she could trade, she-”

“She stole it; I didn't **give** her anything,” Sawyer tells Jack, repeating what he said on the beach.

“She stole your gun?” Jack asks doubtfully.

“I was a little distracted, alright,” Sawyer bites out and is ashamed at how guilty he sounds. He wants to believe it's none of Jack's business who he fucks, but at the same time, he wants Jack to care. To be jealous. To **notice** him. Try as he might not, all he wants is Jack. 

Jack waits, lets the idea sink in, and puts the pieces together, the, _Give Sawyer my best_ , and Sawyer's guilty eyes. “You fucked her,” he says quietly, then adds, “As payment?”

“Hell no,” Sawyer spits out. “'Spite what you think of me, Doc, I ain't that low.” His hands sink into the back pockets of his jeans, pulling them down a touch, and he kicks at the undergrowth uncomfortably.

Silence descends on them, heavy and hot, like blood on the tongue, and Sawyer feels an uncomfortable, tight, heat crawl along his chest, clawing and desperate. He hates that Jack can make him feel like this - make him feel, period - but there it is. The one person on the whole God damn island who can make his skin crawl in good ways and bad ways and it has to be Doctor Goody Fucking Two Shoes, who probably never fucked just to **feel** in his whole God damn life. 

Sawyer looks at Jack, watches him carefully from beneath his lashes, his own head hanging low. Jack looks tense, his jaw working and his mouth wrestling with something hard, like he's working straining to keep his words inside. He fails though, and words fall out, in a harsh, choked voice. “Why?”

He fails though; one single, pained word slips out. The sound of it is harsh and choked, so brittle it could break. “Why?”

And Jack's question catches him so off guard - he sounds fucking **jealous** \- that his own answer erupts, unbidden, from that hot, tight ache in his chest. “Because she **wanted** me.” He hates how naked his voice sounds, how broken and honest, but it's out there now, and he's not going to squirm and talk around it like it ain't true and he's ashamed of himself.

Jack replies quickly, as though he's trying to convince himself as much as Sawyer. “She wanted your gun, Sawyer.”

Sawyer looks down, avoids Jack's burning, accusatory glare, and kicks at the jungle floor again. “'S more than you wanted from me lately, ain't it?” 

Jack's tongue flicks out to lick his lips as he looks down and shakes his head. His hands rise against his thighs to settle on his hips. “Is this what this is about? Me and you?”

“'Case you didn't notice, there ain't no me an' you, Jack.” His eyes flare, dark, angry, and he wants it to be a hateful stare, but he feels longing, and regret. 

\--

_When they play cards, sit and **flirt** unabashedly for an afternoon, something in Sawyer begins to stir. Since he's returned, there's been no acknowledgement the stares and touches and hell, even **feelings** that had coursed between himself and Jack before the raft – Jack had taken to outright ignoring him since his bit with the guns – but this, this was something he can work with._

_Jack paying him attention._

_And fuck, he's getting as bad as Kate, because damn, if it doesn't make something good and impossible tickle inside his chest, because he wants Jack again - **still** wants Jack, even - and he thinks he has a **chance**. Jack is more tightly-wound than ever - the hatch, the mission, the guy in the armoury, the food, the injuries - but Sawyer knows the taste of his cock and the sound of his orgasm better than Jack knows any of this. Sawyer's sure he knows how to undo him._

_Before the raft there'd been stolen moments in the depths of the jungle, and reckless afternoons in the dunes of the beach, hoping, like teenagers, they wouldn't get caught. It wasn't that they were ashamed, they just weren't admitting it – to anyone, but mostly themselves. Touching and kissing and blowjobs on the outskirts of camp were dangerous because anyone could find them, and if they were found, they'd have to admit what they were doing, and Sawyer wasn't ready to deal with the feelings they were not talking about. They were fighting and fucking and developing a grudging respect for one another before he left, and then the raft and the hatch and the con with the guns had shot it all to hell._

_He finds Jack when he's not even looking for him, and doesn't know who is caught more off-guard, himself or Jack. Jack leaning against a tree with his eyes closed and his mouth parted just so, and if that isn't a good enough sight for Sawyer, Jack has his jeans unbuttoned and a hand around his cock and is pumping himself hard. He's whispering something under his breath, moans and whispers wrapping themselves around the quiet words, holding the name heatedly within his mouth, flicking the two short syllables over his tongue like a kiss._

_Sawyer stops for a moment (and) deliberates how to handle this. As well as he knows Jack's body, he can't be sure he knows **Jack**. Want tastes metallic on his tongue, heady and strong, and he's about to flip out an insult or cat-call at Jack, when Jack’s eyes flick down, meet Sawyer's, and oh..._

_Sawyer watches as Jack’s hand speeds up for a second, then slows, stilling tightly around the base of his cock, holding himself back. His mouth tightens, and his eyes widen, looking closely at Sawyer._

_“Letting a little steam off there, Doc?” Sawyer asks, all bravado, and little plan._

_Jack lets out a slow, controlled breath, staring at Sawyer. “What do you want, Sawyer?”_

_This isn't how it used to be. Jack used to blush, full of heat and longing and **wanting** , and Sawyer wouldn't have to seduce him. Now, Jack looks tired, and as the immediacy of orgasm drains from his eyes, angry._

_Sawyer ignores the look, and stalks forward, grinning slyly. “Thought I could give ya a hand,” he tells him, grinning cockily at the pun. He reaches forward, slipping his fingers between the belt-loops resting low on Jack's hips, and pulls himself forward against Jack's weight. His free fingers brush against the hot skin of Jack's hips, and Jack's erection jumps in his hand. “Happy to see me?” he asks, and he dips his head, bringing his lips closer to the mouth he used to know as well as his own._

_“Don't,” Jack says quietly in the tight space between their mouths. The soft exhale of words press and linger on Sawyer's mouth like a kiss, and he's not in the least surprised by Jack's hesitancy; denial is just another game they've gotten good at._

_“Sshh,” Sawyer whispers, one hand sliding up the front of Jack's body, as the other continues working in slow circles on Jack's hip. He touches Jack's neck, fingers moving against the skin there in soft licks strokes, in ways he knows to make Jack break against him. “You can be uptight and straight and an asshole in the morning; I want you now,” he says against Jack's jaw, mouth moving slowly over the stubble._

_“No.”_

_Sawyer frees his hand from Jack's belt-loops, and traces over to his cock, wrapping his own hand around Jack's. “No?”_

_“I don't want you, Sawyer,” Jack says, and his voice is level and his eyes are calm._

_Sawyer's heart spikes uncomfortably, and he hates himself for feeling anything but vague annoyance, because this shouldn't mean anything to him. He bites at the corner of his mouth where it meets his cheek, and his eyes flit down to their joined hands. Jack's still hard. “You sure about that, Doc?”_

_Jack inhales sharply, and Sawyer thinks he's won for a second when Jack's hand moves, and wraps around his own hand. “I don't want you,” he says again, quietly, but with that air of authority that he usually reserves for his ridiculous, awe-inspiring speeches. “You stole the guns to drive everyone away, you fucked us all over, and it worked. **No one** wants to have anything to do with you Sawyer, not me, not anyone.”_

_Sawyer backs away, jarred by Jack's answer. That was the whole point, wasn't it? No one was supposed to **like** him. But like and want were completely different beasts; he hadn't expected Jack to be this strong. He shrugs, backs further away, actions belying the hurt he's trying to tell himself he doesn't feel. Much as he hates to admit it to himself, Jack's words cut deep; not just because they're true, but because they both know it. And Jack doesn't want him anymore._

_“Maybe I'll go see if Freckles is busy; girl don't seem to have as many morals as some people 'round here.”_

\--

“You made it pretty clear when you went marching off into the jungle with Freckles that Iain't important, that I wasn't **wanted** ,” Sawyer spits out, anger too potent to leave his mind clear enough to **lie**. He shouldn't be this honest - no good ever came of baring your feelings, he knows - but the memory of Jack's rejection, and now this, is pushing on too much to handle.

“Ana Lucia didn't want you either, Sawyer,” Jack says again, and his tone is so even, so dispassionate, that Sawyer knows it to be more control than actual lack of feeling. Jack's eyes gloss wetly, and despite the lacklustre tone of his voice, Sawyer knows there's something there. Stupidly, he wants to believe that the card game meant something, the rejection afterward meant nothing, and the charged air between them isn't in his imagination. Somehow, Jack has crept into his mind, lodged himself between Sawyer's natural distrust and inclination to **hate** , and made himself more at home thananyone should be allowed to.

He feels blind in Jack's presence, unsure of himself in a way he's never known. Lazy smile, cocky swagger, talented tongue. He knows the tricks, how to seduce someone and win them over. Jack uses none of Sawyer's well honed techniques, but still Sawyer finds himself caught in lust and – something else.

He knows it stupid, futile. Throwing himself at Jack, like this, but - 

“I want **you**. I saw you, before. You want somethin' too.”

Jack smiles weakly, and shakes his head. “It's too late, Sawyer.”

“The hell it is,” Sawyer snarls, and stalks toward Jack's waiting body. He's ready to push and fight and thrust and grind for this, doesn't expect Jack to concede so easily, but Jack's body folds into his as soon as Sawyer reaches for him. 

Jack looks at him strangely for a moment, eyes dark, unreadable, and then he surges forward, his hand curling around Sawyer's neck, and the other reaching at his hip.

Jack's mouth presses against his, longing and desperate, his lips sear and his tongue searches, and it's so much of what Sawyer wants that he doesn't stop to think why, just kisses back blindly with mouth and hands and body. 

Jack's got needs, and can only deny himself so long. He's caving to his body's want, and Sawyer won't call him a fool for it, not when he's half-lost in the incredible heat and slick-pressure of Jack's body pressing against his. Pressing against the hollows in Jack he's carved of his own shape, Sawyer curves into him, knowingly touching and **melting** into him. Sawyer lets himself fall to the floor with Jack, content to let him choose and want and do. 

Their voices quieten in favour of desperate pants and moans of pleasure, singing together against the hushed jungle symphony of birds and rustles and the distant rumble of the sea. Sawyer loses sight - and sound and feel and memory - of everything but Jack; so relieved to just be **touching** him. The sharp press of twigs and rough slide of leaves against his back are nothing compared to Jack's fingers skimming his hips and waist as he pulls his shirt off him, and though Sawyer blindly reaches to touch Jack, he's brushed off, and he falls against the floor, helpless to Jack's quick hands and eager mouth.

Jack's quick fingers slip down Sawyer's torso to the zipper of his jeans, and undoes them slowly, easing a little of the pressure against his cock. His fingers slide around him, hot and firm, and he tugs and pulls at Sawyer's cock; it's not the teasing touches of weeks before, no drawn out climax. Jack is tearing something from him, his hands desperate against Sawyer's cock and thighs. It's almost painful, but it's Jack and he's touching him, and if it makes him a pussy then so be it, because it's worth it.

Jack bends over him, avoiding his lips and presses kisses and bites into Sawyer's neck. It's going to bruise, and he's going to need to make excuses to Freckles, but he doesn't care. There's a hot tight pleasure coiling inside him, growing deeper and more intense with every flick of Jack's wrist and press of his tongue, and if his interlude with Ana Lucia was a welcome distraction from fruit picking, then **this** is heaven to Sawyer.

“Jesus Doc,” he moans, and the hips he'd trained steady still buck into Jack's waiting hand. “I wanted – I waited...” and he should know better than talk during moments of incoherency because if he's not careful he'll say something damn stupid, but it's been so long since the afternoon the raft set sail, and Jack's always made him stupid. His words fall by the wayside, though, as Jack's touches increase in their urgency, playing Sawyer's body the way he learnt months before.

Sawyer's hips jerk into Jack's hand, still rough, not giving, but **wringing** the pleasure from his body. Heat courses through him, and the reddish, blurry pleasure thrumming through his body goes supernova as it centres in his cock and he comes as Jack squeezes and pulls and it's painful and hot and **good**.

The jungle goes bright and hot and indistinct for a moment, and Sawyer is lost to everything but Jack's hand on his cock and Jack's mouth on his neck. He smiles, slow and easy, loving the feel of Jack's cock hard against his thigh, and his own warm in Jack's hand. Blindly, he reaches for Jack's head, still bleary and spellbound. 

Then Jack backs up, away from Sawyer's reaching hands and crawls off Sawyer's body so he's crouched on the jungle floor as Sawyer lays prone before him, half naked and exposed. Jack asks, “Where are the guns, Sawyer?” and the jungle and reality come lurching back into focus.

He takes a moment to comprehend the words, and a slow trickle of dread creeps down his spine; it wasn't Jack that fell stupid to the want of his body. Twice in two days; Shit, he used to be better than this. “You're one conniving son of a bitch, Jack,” he says quietly, and doesn't trust himself to say anything else, any louder. Right now he doesn't trust his voice not to betray him. He thought... **shit** , he really should know better than this.

Jack's eyebrows twitch up, and he sucks his bottom lip beneath his teeth. “Where are they?”

Sawyer shakes his head and rolls his eyes and wonders what went wrong. Somewhere along the line, pretty close to the time Jack crashed into his life, he thinks, he became so stupid that he couldn't see someone playing him with his own bullshit. He tells Jack where they are, anyway, because he sure earned it, didn't he?

Jack stands up and backs off. Before he turns to go, he opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it again abruptly. His jaw works tightly, like before, but this time he can't get the words out. Sawyer hopes to God the words ain't an apology, because being fucked over he can stand, but he don't want no pity or regret.

Walking away, Jack doesn't look behind him, and Sawyer is left sprawled on the dirty ground, watching Jack's retreating form.

\-- end.


End file.
